


Chicken Supreme

by elstaplador



Category: Chicken Run (2000)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Contraband, Escape, Extracted From the Opening Montage, Freedom, Gen, Hidden treasure, Knitting your way out of trouble, Misses Clause, Missing Scene, Secret Passage, Talking Like A Pirate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/elstaplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ginger has a plan and meets a stranger, Mac does some lateral thinking, Babs knows some useful rodents and Bunty is offended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Supreme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lls_mutant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lls_mutant/gifts).



From the day she was hatched, Ginger had her eye on a way out of Tweedy's Chicken Farm. Whether she was confined to the cramped incubator box with thirty-seven other chicks, or the wire-fenced mud of the main enclosure, she had one thought: freedom.

Over the months as she grew up, over the years as she became accustomed (though never resigned) to a life of captive egg-laying, the thought became a plan. The plan became action. When it failed, the thought was still there. Freedom. There was another plan. And another. And another...

 

And there were others who shared her dream...

'There are three ways to deal with this fence,' Mac said. 'Under, over, and through. Under is laborious. Over is conspeecuous. But through - we might just manage to get through.'

'We tried going through,' Ginger reminded her. 'When we used the feed troughs, and everybody got stuck?'

'Aye, that didnae work,' Mac admitted. 'Likewise, when you and Bunty tried hanging onto the bottom of the wheelbarrow, and dropped off half way through. But that was when you tried going through the door. The throuble wi' the door is, it's only open when yon Tweedy's aboot, and when he's aboot the chances are he'll catch ye. If you were to look at the ither side, perhaps...'

'I see your point,' Ginger said. 'I'll think about it. I'll let you know later.'

 

She went up to the roof where she did all her thinking. Mac had a point, she had to admit. After all, if you didn't even start by heading in the right direction – away from the farm – then what hope did you have of ever making it out? She looked out towards the green hills of her dreams. Then, reluctantly, she looked downwards. There it was. The fence. Separating her from her freedom.

Over. Under. _Through_.

Yes, Mac was right: they had much more chance of getting out without being seen if they were the opposite side from the farmhouse. But she'd scratched around there experimentally, and she knew that the ground was much harder, and much more difficult to dig in. There was no way they'd manage a tunnel there, and even a hole under the fence would be challenging.

 _Through_. But how could they go through the fence itself? They were too solid; the holes in the mesh would have to be bigger than they were at the moment, and what could they cut them with? They had no tools to speak of.

For once, she didn't have a plan. There would be no meeting in Hut 17 that night. But she'd think of something. By roll call next morning, she'd think of something.

 

Every chicken on Tweedy's farm – Fowler excepted – had a sort of mental calendar. It only showed a week at a time, and it was her most valuable asset in the struggle for survival. A tick for every day she'd laid an egg. Seven, six, five or four ticks – safe for another week. Three, two, or one – risky. None – disaster. Ginger knew she was OK – she'd managed five that week. She wasn't sure about some of her friends. She squinted at Mrs Tweedy's chart. Mac was fine. Bunty – well, you never needed to worry about Bunty. Babs – surely there was a tick against her name? Surely?

Ginger held her breath. Mrs Tweedy looked at Babs, hard. Babs shivered. Mrs Tweedy nodded, and moved on.

'Whew!' Ginger murmured, as soon as it was safe. 'I was worried there!'

Babs seemed unshaken. 'Thanks for that egg, Bunty!' she said. 'That was really sweet of you!'

In so far as it was possible, Bunty blushed, and muttered, 'Think nothing of it.'

'No, but really,' Babs said, 'I'd like to do something for you. Knit something. A hat maybe, or a scarf...'

And inspiration struck. 'Hang on a minute,' Ginger said. 'Babs, where does your wool come from?'

'Ooh, all over,' Babs said. 'Some of it's local, of course, but I've got French yarn, and American, and even a bit of silk...'

'I didn't mean that,' Ginger said. 'I meant, where does it _come_ from? How does it get to you?'

'Haven't the foggiest,' Babs said cheerfully. 'But I'll ask my supplier if you like.'

Ginger grasped at the straw. 'That would be good. In fact, would you be able to introduce us?'

'Introduce us? But we already know each other. I'm Babs, and you're Ginger.'

She sighed. 'I meant, could you introduce me to your supplier?'

 

They had to wait a week. Babs wasn't sure how to get in touch with her supplier outside scheduled rendez-vous times (after dark, over by hut 6, every Tuesday) and, though Ginger was impatient, there wasn't much she could do to hurry things up. Still, it gave her and Mac time to plan.

'You're right, Mac,' Ginger said. 'We'll have so much more time if we're not overlooked by the farm. And it'll save a lot of energy once we're out – in the open.' She still couldn't quite believe in the open, that mythical land beyond the farm, that she could see but had never yet set foot in.

'There's a psychological benefit, too,' Mac said. 'We'll be facing the right direction. All we have to do is keep clear of yon dogs.'

Ginger nodded. 'What I thought,' she said, 'is that we could make a hole in the fence.'

'What on earth with?' Mac asked.

'I'm hoping Babs' supplier will have something we can use. If he or she can get hold of wool, they can get hold of anything.'

 

They were rats. No, literally, they were rats.

The less dopey-looking one introduced himself. 'Nick, and....'

'…?' said the other one.

'Nick and _Fetcher_ , at your service,' said the first one, who seemed to be in charge.

'Oh, right, yeah. Fetcher. That's me. And he's Nick.'

Ginger would not have trusted them further than she could throw them and their tin of contraband goods, but she was desperate.

'Right,' she said. 'This is what we need...' She fished the list out. 'What are your terms?'

'Spring, summer, and autumn. Actually, we work all the way through the summer, but we take two weeks off at Christmas...' Fetcher began, but Nick jabbed him in the ribs.

'Shut up,' he said. 'Our terms are: one egg for every item.'

Eggs! Ginger was appalled. Eggs were their only means of survival in the compound; they couldn't just go giving them away. 'Do I look like I was hatched yesterday?' she demanded. 'I'm not paying you in eggs!'

'Eggs?' someone said. 'Who's paying in eggs?'

'Bunty!' Ginger gasped. 'What are you doing out at this time of night?'

'No law against taking the air, is there? Not after Tweedy's done his rounds. I don't see you lot tucked up in your nests.'

There was no answer to that.

'These gentlemen were just saying that, while they would be happy to source certain materials for us, they would require payment in eggs,' Ginger explained. 'I was just saying that they could go to hell.'

'But the other lady always gives us eggs,' Nick whined.

'What other lady?' Bunty demanded.

In so far as it is possible for a chicken to whimper, Babs whimpered.

Bunty looked at Babs for several seconds. Finally, she said, 'Let me get this straight. You don't lay eggs. I give you eggs. You use my eggs to buy wool. For your bleeding knitting.'

Babs whimpered a bit more, and took a step backwards.

Nick cleared his throat. 'Ahem. So, do we have a deal?'

Ginger smiled coldly. 'No. At the moment we do not have a deal. If you can suggest some alternative currency I might be able to manage something, but we're not giving you our eggs. That's flat.'

'But eggs are round,' Fetcher murmured. 'Not flat. All the ones I've ever seen. Until you drop them, I suppose.'

'Oh, shut your trap,' Nick said. 'Can't you tell when you're not wanted?'

They sauntered off, but Ginger didn't see them go. She was too distracted by the way that Bunty was pulling Babs' feathers out.

'Break it up, girls!' she urged. 'Break it – oh, no!'

For she had just heard the low growl that meant that the dogs were in the vicinity. And where the dogs were, there would Mr Tweedy be also.

Even if she had been able to separate Bunty and Babs, there was no time to get back to the hut. She comforted herself with the thought that at least they weren't doing anything suspicious – apart from being out of nest after dark, that is.

She could have run. She didn't. She wasn't going to leave Babs and Bunty, even if they were acting soft-boiled. She squawked, 'Run, you two! Run!' but it was no use. Tweedy got the pair of them; they were so surprised that they stopped fighting. Then again, it would have been difficult to continue when Tweedy was holding them in two different hands.

'What are you up to, eh?' he asked. 'Out after dark, and with that little ginger one. What's going on? I don't trust you two.'

A voice shrilled from indoors. 'Mr Tweedy!'

'Coming, love,' he called. He looked first at Bunty, then at Babs. Then he looked at Ginger. He was obviously wondering what to do, given that he had three problem chickens and only two hands. 'Well,' he said at last, 'you two are coming with me.' He aimed a kick at Ginger. 'You – had better behave yourself.' And he strode off towards the farmhouse. The gate clanged shut behind him.

'Help, Ginger, help!' Babs shrieked. 'I don't like this holiday! I don't think Bunty does either!'

Ginger just about heard Bunty cluck, 'It's not a bleeding holiday...'

And they were gone.

 

'I've got to go in after them,' Ginger said. 'I've got to get them out.'

'Ye cannae just rush in,' Mac said, doubtfully. 'Ye have to have a plan.'

Scarcely five minutes had elapsed, but they felt like five days. Ginger was desperately worried. She had gone back to Hut 17 – because where else was there to go? - but her thoughts were with Babs and Bunty, wherever they were.

'What do you suggest I do, then?' she asked.

Fowler (who had abandoned all attempts at shut-eye and joined the assembly in Hut 17 upon learning of the emergency) said 'Hrmph! Do a recce, make a sortie, go in there, get them out, what what!'

'Well, yes,' Ginger said, 'that was what I was thinking.'

Mac asked, with exaggerated patience, 'How do ye propose to get out of here? How do ye propose to find Babs and Bunty? How do ye propose to get them oot again?'

'As it's a solo attempt, I can just go under the fence,' Ginger said. 'I'll deal with the other problems as they arise. Meanwhile, Mac, you're in charge. If those rats come back, see if you can make a deal with them to get a pair of wire cutters and some dark coloured string. Then get to work on that hole we were talking about on the country side of the fence.' She swallowed. 'I think we're safe until Saturday; the Tweedys are too tight to have a – _roast –_ more than once a week. If none of us is back by then – go ahead without us. You've got to get out of here.'

Before anybody could argue, she turned and left the hut.

 

Outside, the wind howled. Ginger dashed across the expanse of mud, and, listening for footsteps and barking, crawled under the fence. Nobody was about. A single light burned inside the farmhouse. Upstairs. The humans had gone to bed. But where had Tweedy put Babs and Bunty?

Ginger had to admit to herself that she had no idea. Tweedy's Farm was big, and there was no way that she would be able to search it all before Sunday. That being so, she had to find someone who could direct her. And the only candidate was – Tweedy himself.

She couldn't quite believe that she was thinking of eavesdropping on the farmer. She was scaring herself. But it was the only way. She was going to have to get into the farmhouse, and follow Tweedy around until she found out where Babs and Bunty were.

The kitchen window was open. That was her first piece of luck. There was a handy flowerpot under it. That was the second. The dogs were asleep. That was the third. The three combined got her into the house and upstairs without trouble. Keeping close to the wall, she followed the sound of voices.

'… how many times have I told you?' Mrs Tweedy was saying. ' _They are not organised!_ '

Ginger picked her way along the landing and listened outside the bedroom door.

'All the same,' Tweedy said, 'I've locked them in the killing shed. It'll save you a job come Saturday.'

Ginger shivered. She knew that shed. She had never been in there. She never wanted to. But it looked very much as if she was going to have to.

'Thank you for your concern,' Mrs Tweedy said in tones of withering sarcasm, 'but I think I'm capable of choosing this week's dinner myself, thank you. And it won't be one of our best layers. You can let that one out in the morning. The other one, though...'

A floorboard creaked. Ginger realised with horror that Mrs Tweedy was getting out of bed and – yes – crossing the floor. She was going to come out! There was nowhere to hide on the landing. Ginger ducked into the nearest room and flattened herself against the wall. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Mrs Tweedy's footsteps passed the door. Then they stopped.

Ginger held her breath.

Mrs Tweedy turned back. And she shut the door. And she turned the key.

Ginger looked desperately around the room, but she knew already that she was trapped. The window was shut, and there was no other way out. It was a sliver of a room, a cluttered and dusty boxroom, and in all probability neither of the Tweedys would return to it for weeks. Ginger was not the type to despair easily, but this situation did actually seem hopeless. She sank down on a pile of old newspapers and closed her eyes.

 

Meanwhile, Babs and Bunty had passed through the stages of denial ('Are you sure this isn't a holiday?'), anger ('Yes, I flipping well am sure this isn't a dratted holiday!), bargaining ('I'll lay ever so many eggs, and I won't use _any_ of them to pay Nick and Fetcher...'), and depression ('What's the bleeding point anyway? Even if we get out of here we'll only lay eggs for the rest of our lives, and end up as the Tweedys' Sunday lunch,') and were see-sawing between acceptance and action.

'We probably could get out of here, you know,' Bunty said. 'If we put our minds to it.'

'Ginger will be so worried,' Babs said. 'Do you think she's going to come and fetch us?

'Ginger!' Bunty snorted. 'We don't need Ginger to get us out of here! We can do that ourselves!'

'Do you think so?'

'Of course we can! All we have to do is... is...' Bunty looked around the shed. 'All we have to do is think about it logically.'

Babs beamed. 'Really?'

'Yes! Logically!'

'Go on, then,' Babs said brightly.

'Right then.' Bunty frowned, and thought for a bit.

'Well?'

'I'm still thinking.'

About three and a half seconds passed.

'Have you thought yet?' Babs asked.

'No.'

'How about now?'

Bunty quelled her with a look. 'How about I tell you when I've finished thinking?'

'That would work,' Babs agreed, peaceably.

'Good.'

There was silence for a little while. At last Bunty said, 'Right. We're for the chop, you and me, or we wouldn't be in this shed.'

'Ooh!' Babs shuddered.

'But it was a bit of an impulse thing, and so if we weren't in this shed they might forget about it.'

'It's not Saturday,' Babs agreed.

'So we need to get out.'

'I thought we knew that?'

'I hadn't finished, OK?'

'Sorry.'

Bunty continued, 'It's still quite early. Roll call won't have happened yet. I reckon they'll come to the shed first. If we can get back to the enclosure before roll call, we might be able to blend in with the crowd.'

'How do we do that, then?'

'We don't have time for one of Ginger's schemes. We'll just have to go as soon as somebody opens the door.'

'But they'll catch us!'

'This,' Bunty said, 'is the clever part. We go over their heads. Whichever one of them it is. They'll be expecting us to be on the ground, where they can just pick us up. But do you see that shelf up there? If we can get up there, we can just hop out as soon as they open the door, and we get a head start. Then we run back to the, well, to the run.'

'What if they run faster than we do?'

Bunty did not care to admit that this was the major flaw in the plan. 'You got any better ideas?'

'No... I don't think so... No. But how do we get up to the shelf?'

Bunty smiled. 'Do you have your knitting bag?'

'I _always_ have my knitting bag.'

'Could you make a ladder?'

'I could try.'

'Off you go then,' Bunty said.

 

Somewhat to her surprise, when Ginger opened her eyes again it was considerably lighter – the dirty grey light of early dawn. Against all the odds, she had managed to sleep. She felt guilty, but decided that it was as good a use of the night as anything – she wouldn't have been able to do much in that pitch darkness, and at least now she'd be able to have a proper look around the room and see if there really wasn't a way out.

The window was a wash-out, as she'd feared. It was a heavy sash job; she'd never be able to lift it, even if she could manage the catch. The door was out, too. Ginger turned her attention to the walls. She worked her way around the room, tapping at the skirting boards. There was a mouse hole in one corner; at a pinch, she might be able to do something with that. She kept going.

Nothing doing at the outside wall, of course. Half way along the next one she stopped, and listened. Surely she could hear scratching? She shook her head, and bent to listen again. No: there was definitely something there. She tapped again, gently. The scratching stopped; then, after about a minute, it started again.

Something was trying to get into this room. Ginger had no idea why; herself, she was more interested in getting out of it. But perhaps they could turn the situation to their mutual advantage.

Looking more carefully, Ginger found that the skirting board was loose at the end nearest the door. That made life easier. Searching the room for something to use as a lever, she came across a steel ruler. Perfect. Almost perfect. It was a bit too long, but it would do. With some difficulty, Ginger inserted it in the crack between wall and board, and pulled.

Nothing happened. She pulled harder.

The board creaked, and came away from the wall by about an eighth of an inch.

She pulled again. A quarter of an inch.

She scrambled up and wedged her foot between the ruler and the wall. The springy steel gave a little. Then she squeezed the rest of herself into the gap, and bounced. Every time she came down the skirting board came a little further away from the wall. Again and again she jumped, until at last the skirting board broke free with a noise of cracking and splintering.

'That sounded useful!' said whoever it was on the other side of the wall.

Ginger sat down for a few moments' rest. Her unknown accomplice seemed to be carrying on regardless, judging by the noise. She kept a close eye on the spot where it was coming from; one never knew what one might learn.

After about a minute her curiosity was rewarded. A jagged hole appeared at the bottom of the wall, where she'd ripped away the skirting board, and she could just see a large beak enlarging it with impressive speed.

Shortly after that, the beak's owner emerged into the boxroom. It was a grey bird, a little smaller than herself, with a red tail. 'Greetings, shipmate,' it said, 'and hearty thanks to ye. I'd have had trouble with that board if you'd not helped me out there.'

'Um – you're welcome,' Ginger said. 'I'm Ginger.'

'Pleasure to meet ye, Ginger,' said the parrot. 'I'm Abby, late of the good ship Grace O'Malley, though bound prisoner here for the past forty years.'

'Forty years!' Ginger exclaimed. 'I only entered this house yesterday! - though I was hatched on this farm, and have been trying to escape ever since.'

'Indeed?' said Abby. 'I'd count myself lucky not to be in the house. What did you come in for?'

Ginger explained about Babs and Bunty.

'Hmph,' Abby said. 'Well, you're a brave young hen, and I'd be proud to have you on my crew. Let's see about getting out of here. If my calculations are correct, we should be able to get out onto the roof from here.'

'I don't think so,' Ginger said. 'I've had a good look round, and I can't see any way out.'

'Really? That's odd.' With a grace that Ginger envied, Abby took off and flapped around the room. 'No,' she said when she landed, 'you're quite right. There's no way out of here. I must have made some error. Well, I shall have to go back to my cell and see what I've done wrong. Care to accompany me?'

Ginger agreed readily. Anything was better than staying in that boxroom. She followed Abby through the hole in the wall. It was a double-thickness wall with a gap between the two sides; Abby led her along between them until they came to another hole.

They emerged into a disused bedroom. 'The mistress' old aunt lived here until she died,' Abby explained. 'There's my cell. See?' She pointed a wing at a large wire cage that hung from the ceiling. 'Not much space, is there? Particularly for one such as myself who's had the freedom of the seven seas and the four winds. Ah, when I was a pirate...'

She had just the same kind of faraway look in her eyes that Fowler wore when he was about to start going on about his RAF days. Ginger said, hurriedly, 'How on earth did you get out of there?'

'Oh, nothing to it,' Abby said proudly. 'I made a hole in the floor and dragged my food dish over it. It only took me five years. There was a helpful rusty patch. The early years were the most difficult, of course. The old lady didn't like the noise I made when I scraped at it, so I could only do it when she wasn't in the room.'

'Gosh,' Ginger said. 'So you can get in and out quite easily?'

'Watch me,' Abby said, and flew up to the cage. She gripped the edge of the hole and swung her way in. 'Ah,' she said, after a moment. 'I see where I went wrong now. How provoking! The mere width of a line threw all my calculations out, and I ended up in the wrong room entirely.'

Just then, footsteps sounded on the stairs. 'You'd better hide,' Abby said. 'Quickly.' Then, without warning, she yelled, ' _PIECES OF EIGHT! PIECES OF EIGHT!_ '

Nothing happened. The footsteps carried on past.

'Um, excuse me?' Ginger said, when she judged it safe, 'but what exactly were you doing just then?'

Abby sniffed. 'They think I'm mad. They ignore me, but I keep trying. You see, I know where there is the most fantastic treasure hidden. On the island of St Helena, where I sailed when I was little more than a chick... If they would only let me go free, I'd show them where it is – what use is treasure compared to freedom, after all? - but they never listen. Still –    
_PIECES OF EIGHT!_   
'

It seemed an ineffectual strategy to Ginger, but with a record of two hundred and eighty-seven escape attempts and no successes so far, she felt that she had little authority to judge.

 

By dint of fierce bargaining, using chicken feed as currency, Mac had prevailed upon Nick and Fetcher to fetch her a pair of wire cutters and a ball of green garden twine. She lost no time in, firstly, working out the maximum possible dimensions of any given chicken on Tweedy's farm, and, secondly, cutting a hole corresponding to that size in the fence. That was the easy part – though the wire cutters seemed to have been designed for creatures with opposable thumbs, and consequently it took at least ten minutes to cut through each strand. She rather wished she had Babs with her to help with the cover-up: the general idea was to make a net out of the garden twine that would look – from a distance – as if the wire fencing was intact. Mac did her best, with the help of a Girl Guide Handbook provided by the rats, but it was a fiddly and frustrating job. Still, when the sun came up, the fence looked as if no one had touched it. Mac hurried back to her nest.

 

Abby was certainly an interesting companion. Ginger had learned more from her about engineering, maths, geometry and etiquette in an hour and a half than she'd ever known in her life. They discussed their respective escape attempts. Ginger was impressed by the thirty-nine and a half years of meticulous planning that Abby put into her one, elaborate, plan. Abby was impressed by Ginger's sheer perseverance in the face of a far greater logistical challenge. Since neither of them had yet managed to escape, however, they were forced to conclude that they had both been doing something wrong.

'I don't think you're ever going to get any help from the Tweedys,' Ginger said. 'I know we won't – dead or alive, they're our enemy – and I don't think they understand about your treasure.'

'Not willing help, I'll give ye that,' Abby said. 'But ye've given me an idea. Listen. One of them comes in to drop off my rations first thing, before they go out. I'm getting into the cage. You hide – just behind the door. Whatever happens, it's very important that you don't make a sound – and that as soon as Tweedy is looking at me, you just run, and run, and run. Don't wait for me. Just get out. I have a plan, but it won't work for both of us.'

'All right, then,' Ginger said, dubiously. 'But how - '

'Belay there!' Abby exclaimed. 'There's the alarm! Quick, to the door!'

Ginger sprinted to the doorway and crouched behind a plant stand. She risked a glance back at the cage. From where she was, she couldn't see Abby, which seemed odd, but she wasn't going to argue. There were footsteps coming their way.

It was Mr Tweedy. 'Hello Polly,' he said as he opened the door. 'How are you this morning? Pieces of eight?'

Abby did not answer.

Tweedy crossed the room. Ginger saw her chance. She ran. Tweedy's voice floated down behind her. 'Mrs Tweedy! The parrot! She's no more! She's gone to meet her maker! She's fallen off her perch!...'

Ignoring him, Ginger ran. Down the stairs, across the hall, through the kitchen and out at the back door, between Mrs Tweedy's very wellingtons. She kept running until she came to the shed where, she knew now, Babs and Bunty were imprisoned. Mrs Tweedy wasn't bothering to chase her. That was lucky. But she had no idea how she was going to release her friends. That wasn't so good. Bunty was safe, she knew, but Babs could be in danger.

Mrs Tweedy was approaching with an unhurried stride. Ginger ducked behind the shed. She could only watch now.

There came a cry of 'Mrs Tweedy!' from somewhere in the house. That lady paid no attention, and slid back the top bolt, and then the bottom bolt. Then she opened the door.

Two flapping, flailing balls of feathers sailed over her head and landed just behind her. They rolled a little way, then rearranged themselves and started running. 'Bunty!' Ginger exclaimed. 'Babs!' She followed them.

It was obvious where they were heading. Mac was standing at the far corner, and seemed to have carried out her instructions to the letter. There was an extremely inviting looking gap in the fence.

'Nice knitting!' Ginger heard Bunty gasp as they pelted around the perimeter. She had no idea what she was on about, but no doubt they'd hear all about it later. When they were safe.

Babs wriggled through the hole and dashed back to the hut. Bunty followed her. But Ginger was looking up at the sky. Far above her, there was a flash of grey and red. 'Pieces of eeeeeiiiiigggghhhht!' Abby screamed, as she headed south over the fence and away from Tweedy's farm for ever.

Ginger stood watching just a second too long. She suddenly became aware of a presence behind her.

Tweedy snatched her up by her legs. 'You...!' he growled.

Ginger sighed. Back to the coal bunker.

Tweedy threw her in and slammed the lid shut. Ginger blinked. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw her faithful brussels sprout lying there beside her. She settled down, picked it up, threw it at the wall, caught it on the bounceback, threw it at the wall, caught it on the bounceback... _thud... thud... thud..._

She already had another plan brewing. And this one was going to work. She knew it.

**Author's Note:**

> Though you won't find anyone exactly corresponding to her in the book, the character, circumstances, and general nautical vibe, of Abby owe rather a lot to that other great escape story, 'The Count of Monte Cristo'.


End file.
